Sabotage  prologue only
by Dannyboy-mike
Summary: Xander Malone, car booster by trade, finds himself in a series of bad luck after one major race in the desert, the Dust Wars. Read along to find out what becomes of Xander as he tries to find good fortune in the racing world of Sabotage.


In an old office building, panting sounds are heard bouncing off of the walls. The target is running, oblivious to his pursuer's existence. Running right by the hidden silhouette, the target is too busy rushing to his office to notice. The Hitman came out of hiding, just long enough to see him rounding the corner onto the next hallway.

After having jogged to the turn, the pursuer watched as his target entered his office. 'So quick to commit adultery,' laughed the silhouette, 'hell, I would too if I had a hot receptionist to screw.' The pursuer walked to door, only to hear desk utilities falling on the floor. The sounds of shuffling paper, pens, and eventually a lamp falling could be heard. 'Alright,' the Hitman thought, 'I've let them have their last farewell.'

Kicking open the door, the pursuer pulled out two silenced fifty caliber pistols. Staring wide eyed at the person standing in the doorway, they begin to pick themselves up off of the desk. Just as soon as either target started to say something, they both got shot in the throat. The silencers prevent the noise from escaping the small office of the ordinary building.

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><p>"Nicely done!" the boss exclaimed, "Damn it man, did he even see you?" The Hitman got tired of the boss being so excited even after the first job. "Yeah, as I was shooting the two of them off of his desk. Why do you ask?"<p>

"Oh, I'm just curious," the boss said, "Rumor is that your target never sees you. Now why is that?" He was getting too personal, thought the hired Hitman, "I just find it easier that way."

"Well, your next target will not be so easy," the boss said, "His name is Malone, Xander Malone."

"How would you have him meet his end; sniper shot, poison, or one of your unusual special requests?" "Oh, a very special request," the boss said, "I'll let my second brief you, but Hitman, don't destroy him. He has a certain, sentimental value."

Turning to leave, the Hitman said, "I'm not some fucking collector. If you want him in one piece or alive, you go catch him." The boss had his henchmen block the door. Sighing, the Hitman asked, "Now why'd you have to go and do a damn fool thing like that?"

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><p>After the race, all he can see are the blue lights from the police cars that have come after him. As he rounds the corner on to Main Street, he hit a hidden spike strip on his front passenger tire, which made his car drop down from a hundred sixty-seven miles per hour and gaining, to a hundred thirty-five steady.<p>

'Why are they coming for me?' he silently wondered to himself, 'Her boss is the one that they need to be chasing, whoever the hell he is.'

Ironically enough, the movies made a getaway look easy, and he would soon find that out.

He can see the inclined bridge from his current position, with only two hundred yards of road left. The police had caught up and he had to swerve the car to hide the source of his speed, his rear tires. They shot his last front tire and the car began to drag, barely keeping a hundred on the dash board. The car began to jerk in every direction, and the car almost landed in the ditch. He would either make the jump that was a hundred yards away, or perish in his only attempt.

The police began to unload bullets as if they had an unlimited supply. One stray bullet came through the back, sending broken shards of glass everywhere. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw at least a dozen police cars that had targeted him. The bridge had gotten closer, and he gripped the gear shift tighter when he realized it. "Don't do it, Xander," he heard Grace say from the passenger seat, "You'll never make it."

The bridge was almost to them, and he could feel it in his gut. Cop cars were all around him, and there was no way to back out now. He gripped tighter on the steering wheel, dropped gears from fifth to third in order to gain more RPMs, or rotations per minute, and hit the Nitrous Oxide. Using all that is left in his four twenty-four ounce tanks of NOS from the race, he never checked his speed. The car lifted up on the rear wheels just moments before they began to climb the raised bridge...

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><p>AN: If any readers have any ideas to add for this book, submit them.


End file.
